I.
Ricky shuffled down the hall outside the emergency room, in a daze. He spotted the men's room and walked in absently, stopping at the sink and leaning on it for support as he looked at himself in the mirror. He had aged, he thought, and most of that aging had been done in the last thirty minutes.
Lucy had seemed tired and slow for several days, but she was quick to dismiss it as being the result of all her Historical Society activities and recent trips to New York to see how Rick had remodeled the club, not to mention his late-night performances.
When Ricky noticed her looking pale that morning, he became adamant that she see the doctor. But before that could take place, she collapsed suddenly. As the ambulance had rushed her to the hospital with Ricky right behind it, he frantically talked himself into believing that everything was alright. There was no way anything could ever happen to Lucy and he was certain that as soon as he was back by her side, she would sit up and ask him what was going on.
Yes, that's exactly what would happen. Ricky was sure of it.
The reality was that they rushed her through a pair of heavy metal doors and left him standing in that hallway, barking at him to see the nurse in the waiting room.
He hadn't made it that far yet, standing now in that men's room. He splashed some cold water on his face and smoothed back his grey-streaked hair. The experience was eerily similar to the last time he waited uncertainly to hear about his wife's condition, many years before when she'd miscarried her second pregnancy. He steeled himself to nervously pace the waiting room for hours, waiting to hear whether she was coming back to him or not, as he had that day.
He straightened. She did that day and she will today, he thought. He decided, though, that he should call Rick. If it was going to be another long day, at least he would have his son.
Ricky walked out of the men's room, now on a mission to find a phone, and wandered into the waiting room. He stopped in the doorway when he saw a man in a white coat, apparently a doctor, looking around. He turned and spotted Ricky. "Are you Mr. Ricardo?"
Ricky was frozen in place. "Yes, I am."
The doctor approached him, extending his hand. "I'm Dr. Marcus. Please have a seat," he said quietly.
Ricky lowered himself into a nearby chair. The doctor's demeanor worried him. He remembered the day Dr. Harris had come to tell him about Lucy's condition; he was professional and compassionate, yes, but in a rush to get back to his patient. This doctor spoke and acted as though he had nowhere to be and nothing important to do. Right away, Ricky didn't like it.
Dr. Marcus sat in front of Ricky and spoke in hushed tones in an effort to protect their conversation from the others in the room. "Mr. Ricardo, your wife has suffered a sudden heart failure. We did everything we could, but…I'm very sorry to tell you that she's passed."
Ricky looked at the doctor, his eyes glazing over. He repeated the words in his head. Over and over, he repeated it five, six, ten times. "Maybe I dun't understand your English," he finally said lightly, grasping at straws to explain away this news.
Dr. Marcus looked down at his hands, then back at Ricky. "I mean to say that your wife has died, Mr. Ricardo. I'm so sorry."
Ricky sat back in the chair, as though the newly rephrased words had punched him in the jaw. "I dun't believe you. Not Lucy. You have her confused for someone else back there, but you're not talkin' about MY wife."
The doctor looked at Ricky silently. He'd never come across a spouse or any other family member who'd had this reaction to this news and he struggled to know how to handle it.
Ricky looked at him defiantly and Dr. Marcus stood up, truly at a loss that this man did not believe him. "Mr. Ricardo, I wouldn't normally do this, but if you'd like to come back with me, I'll let you see for yourself."
Ricky stood up, having thoroughly convinced himself that this doctor could not possibly be correct in his assessment of Lucy's condition. "Yes, we'll just see."
Dr. Marcus raised his eyebrows and started walking back toward the heavy doors. His worry now was that once Ricky saw the truth for himself, he would be so devastated that he would need medical attention himself.
Ricky followed the doctor through the doors and entered a world of organized chaos. Nurses were running about, hurriedly assessing and working on patients. A handful of doctors went from patient to patient, making their own assessments and giving instructions to the nurses. They paid no attention to the two men as they walked through the emergency room to a dimly lit area which was blocked off by a curtain.
They stopped when they reached the curtain and Dr. Marcus turned to face Ricky. "Mr. Ricardo, are you very certain you want to do this? We can help you with any arrangements you need to make, we can contact anyone you'd like…"
Ricky looked at Dr. Marcus as though he were crazy. "What do you mean, am I certain? I wanna talk to my wife."
A few of the nearby nurses looked at them, overhearing the conversation, then looked at each other.
The doctor nodded reluctantly and pulled the curtain open just enough for Ricky to pass through. As Ricky did so, confidently at that, Dr. Marcus stood just outside the curtain, watching.
Ricky stood by the gurney on which his wife lay flat. A sheet was pulled up to her chin and her normally blush skin was as white as the cloth itself. Her hair was still the hue of raging flames, but it rested limp against the pillow. There was no sign of movement, no rise and fall in the chest of one who was just sleeping.
Ricky put a hand on top of her head, stroking her hair. "Lucy. Honey, wake up…"
Dr. Marcus looked at the floor.
"Lucy!" Ricky's voice rose as a cluster of nurses gathered around the outside of the curtain. He leaned closer to her face. "You can't do this to me. Do you hear me? You have to wake up!"
The doctor came to Ricky's side and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Ricardo…I'm sorry."
Ricky leaned against the gurney, tears beginning to stream uncontrollably down his cheeks. "Lucy, please…you can't die, please dun't do this to me…"
"Mr. Ricardo, is there someone I can call for you?"
Ricky responded by breaking into a full sob, his face resting against the pillow, beside his wife. "Dios mio, por que te la llevan de mi? Por que?"
A nurse approached him, carrying a chair, afraid that he would collapse at any moment. "Please, Mr. Ricardo, sit down," she urged. The rest of the emergency room had seemed to grind to a halt, silent.
Ricky sat, his face in his hands as he continued to cry bitterly.
Another nurse approached Dr. Marcus with a folder and touched him on the arm. "Doctor," she said softly. "There's an adult son listed in Mrs. Ricardo's file, would you like me to try and reach him?"
Dr. Marcus looked at the file. "I'll do it, thank you. Please try to help calm Mr. Ricardo, bring him some water. I'll be right back."
II.
Rick sat in his office with a meatball sub from the deli down the block. As he ate, he looked over some ledgers and punched numbers on a calculator, balancing the business accounts. It was a tedious task that the 23-year-old disliked, but it came along with the joy of performing. He groaned as a drop of sauce from the sub fell onto one of the ledgers and he quickly scrubbed it with a napkin.
Rocco, the club's bouncer, appeared in the doorway, chewing on a bite of his own sandwich. "Hey, Rick, you got a phone call."
Rick swallowed. "Thanks, I'll be right there…" He got up from the chair and went out to the ballroom, where a phone sat behind the bar.
He picked up the receiver and called out to Rocco. "I got it!" He put the phone to his ear and answered cheerfully. "Hello!"
"Is this Enrique Ricardo Jr?" The voice on the phone was solemn.
Rick raised an eyebrow at the use of his legal name. "Yeah, but, uh, call me Rick. Who's this?"
"My name is Dr. James Marcus, I'm with Saint Frances Hospital."
Rick scratched his head. He knew of the hospital, but couldn't think of a reason they would call him. "Yes?"
Dr. Marcus seemed to hesitate, not wanting to provide much information over the phone. "Mr. Ric…Rick, your mother was brought here this morning and I treated her. I think it would be a good idea for you to get here as soon as you can."
Rick straightened. "My mother? Is she alright? What happened?" Before the doctor could respond, Rick shook his head. "I'll be there on the next train!" He hung up the phone without waiting for any further information.
He sprinted to the door, grabbing his jacket and screeching to a halt when he spotted Rocco. "I'm going to Connecticut. Tell Roberto, he'll take care of everything here. I'll call later!"
As he broke into a run again, Rocco stepped out into the doorway and called after him. "Is everything alright?"
Rick didn't answer as he disappeared among the crowd on the sidewalk.
III.
By the time Rick got to the taxi stand at the station in Connecticut, he was physically tired and emotionally anxious. He had waited at Grand Central Station for forty minutes before the next train rolled in and sat tapping his feet for another hour and a half on the train as it made its way out of New York and into Connecticut.
When a taxi pulled up, he jumped into the backseat before the driver could even sense his presence. He spoke urgently to the driver. "I need to get to Saint Frances as fast as you can get me there. I'll make it worth your while."
"You got it." The driver pulled out of the station and peeled down the street.
Even with the driver pushing the taxi as fast as it could go, the hospital was still twenty minutes away. Rick sat watching the trees and neighborhoods flying past him. The doctor's words replayed in his memory and he frowned. What did he mean by 'treated'? Should he not be actively treating her for whatever sent her there in the first place?
He assumed that his father must be at the hospital as well and he found it odd that he hadn't called himself. It didn't seem like him to allow a stranger to deliver such a call. But he heartened. His father must be with his mother, not wanting to leave her side. So she must be alright.
When the taxi pulled up to the hospital entrance, Rick paid the driver the fare and tipped him well for his troubles. He stood outside the building for a moment, almost afraid to go in. Now that he was here, he wasn't sure he wanted to hear what he feared. But he started walking and pushed the darkest of his fears out of his head. That would be ridiculous, he thought.
He entered the bright lobby and walked over to a reception desk. A nurse looked up at him and smiled. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, I got a call from…oh, what was his name? Marcus? Dr. Marcus? He said my mother was brought here this morning and he told me to come right away."
The nurse looked down at some papers on her desk. "What is your mother's name?"
"Lucy…Lucille…Ricardo."
The nurse looked through the files and then glanced back up at Rick, her demeanor changing slightly. Her voice was still friendly when she responded. "Yes. Are you Rick?"
He nodded.
She pointed down a hallway. "Go straight down that hallway and follow the signs for the emergency department. Dr. Marcus is waiting for you, the nurse at that desk will help you."
"Thank you," Rick sighed. He tired of people directing him without telling him what was going on.
He walked down the endless hallway, following the signs as they pointed in various directions until he reached a waiting room. A few people were sitting there, but he didn't see his father. He noticed the nurse that he'd been told to look for sitting at a desk. He spoke without waiting for her to acknowledge him. "I'm looking for Dr. Marcus."
The nurse looked up at him. "Are you Rick?"
"Yes," he responded, exasperated. "I'm sorry, I just came from New York and all I know is that my mother is here."
The nurse nodded. "Come with me."
Rick followed her down another, shorter hallway and through a pair of heavy metal doors. He looked around, realizing he was in the emergency room. Nurses were moving about, treating patients. When they saw him following the desk nurse, they seemed to follow him with their eyes as if they knew who he was and why he was there.
They stopped when they reached a doctor leaning against a counter, writing in a file. He looked up when they approached and the nurse introduced him. "Doctor, this is Rick…"
She left them quickly as the men shook hands. Rick was anxious. "What's happened to my mother? Is my father here?"
Dr. Marcus answered the easier of the two questions first. "Yes, your father is here." He pointed to a section of the room which was closed off by a curtain. Rick started walking toward it, but the doctor stopped him. "Rick…before you go there, I have some news to give you."
IV.
Ricky could not take his hand away from the hair on Lucy's head. He didn't even know how much time had passed since he'd been sitting there, but he knew he'd cried more tears in that time than he had in his whole life. He kept watch over her, ignoring the fact that as time passed, her skin grew colder and paler.
He didn't know how long it would be until he was able to stand again. He couldn't summon the heart to call his son, but he knew he had to soon.
When the curtain moved slowly, he looked up and his eyes filled with renewed tears when he saw his son standing there, his eyes as red as his own.
Rick's eyes moved over his mother where she lay and he turned away, covering his mouth with his hand.
Ricky stood to his feet shakily. He wanted to be a strong father for Rick, but the truth was that he couldn't. He didn't even want to see the light of day again.
When Rick looked at him again and saw the devastation in his face and the tears in his eyes, he hugged him. Ricky embraced him and in some way, they held each other up. But they didn't speak for several moments.
Finally, Rick spoke quietly to his father. "Dad…we have things that we need to take care of and you need to get some rest. Why don't we go home for now?"
Ricky pulled away from his son slowly, his gaze returning to Lucy. He wanted to lie down and die and join her. "Ella no va a despertar…"
Rick shuddered. "No, Dad." He gripped his father's arm as he sat in the chair by the side of the gurney. He couldn't bring himself to touch her, but as Ricky rested a hand on top of his head of thick black hair, he cried into his hands.
V.
Father and son ate a halfhearted dinner of sandwiches later that night, sitting quietly in the kitchen together. Rick had given the hospital the name of the funeral home where they wished for Lucy to be brought and they would go there the next day to discuss the final plans for her rest.
Rick washed the dishes as his father sat silently at the table behind him. Ricky sniffed occasionally as his crying jags came and went in waves.
Rick looked out the window in front of him, but couldn't see much as the night had already fallen. His eyes fell to the windowsill, where he spotted his mother's wedding ring. "Oh God," he whispered, not wanting to alert his father to its presence. It would only throw him further into despair to see it. As he wiped his hands, he snatched it nonchalantly and slipped it into his pocket, planning to give it to the funeral director the next day so she could be wearing it the next time Ricky saw her.
He turned to look at Ricky, still sitting despondently with his hands folded in front of him, his eyes focused on the wood grain markings on the table.
"Dad," Rick said softly. "It's late. Why don't you get some sleep?"
Ricky didn't respond. After a moment, he began standing. His movements were haggard and forced, as though he were an elderly man in the throws of his final days. When he got to the kitchen door, he stopped and turned to look at Rick. "I'm gonna go lie in our bed. But I dunno how much sleep I'm gonna get."
Rick approached him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Wanna sleep in my old room? I can stay in the guest room, it's no big deal."
Ricky shook his head. "No, son, you stay in your room. I need to be where I was with my wife." He started for the living room and to the stairs with Rick following closely behind.
Rick had never seen his father this way. Ricky was always so energetic and passionate. He was strong and driven with purpose. This was a side of his father which Rick had never met before and it felt almost as terrible as losing his mother did.
He followed Ricky up the stairs and to his parents' bedroom. Ricky entered the room and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor.
Rick looked around, seeing his mother's touches everywhere, from the way it had been decorated to her hairbrush and perfume on the vanity. He suddenly felt worry sweep over him. "Dad…maybe you shouldn't stay here tonight. You know, just for tonight."
Ricky lay flat on the bed silently.
Rick sighed and approached the bed. "Do you wanna get undressed, at least?"
Ricky looked up at his son. "I will. I just wanna lie here for now."
Rick nodded. "I'll be right down the hall, Dad." He began to walk away, feeling that maybe his father just needed some time to himself to mourn before he was forced to do so publicly.
As Rick was reaching the doorway, Ricky spoke to him calmly. "Enrique, I love you."
Rick looked back at his father. "I love you, too, Dad." He left the room and pulled the door, leaving it open slightly. He walked down the hall to where his old room was, unchanged from when he'd moved out the year before, passing happy family photos on the walls as he went. He paused and looked at them, noticing them in a way that he never had before. His father always had one arm around him and the other around his mother. In a few of them, his gaze was focused squarely on her.
Rick peered down the hall at the room where his father lay, no sound coming from it at all; another oddity. He hoped that the way in which he'd always known his father hadn't died that day, as well.
VI.
Ricky stared at the ceiling for a long time. He had lost all concept of time and hadn't looked at a clock since he woke up that morning. He shook his head absently. When he woke up that morning, he thought, he never would've believed that this would be the way he'd end the day.
He sat up again and looked around. Lucy's pink silk robe was draped across the chair where she sat at the vanity.
He stood and walked toward it, lifting it into his hands. He looked at it for a few moments; she'd had it for years and she loved it so. His memory flashed with the hundreds of times he'd come up behind her as she brushed her hair and touched her shoulders. He raised it to his face and closed his eyes as he took in her scent, still strong from her having worn it that morning. He cried again, silently, as he smelled her fragrance and the silk caressed his cheek. It felt almost like her hand on his face.
Ricky sat in her chair, feeling weak as he cried, with the robe still in his hand. Strands of shiny red hair were swirled among the bristles of the silver brush that rested on the tabletop. A crystal atomizer sat near it, filled with the auburn colored perfume that she always wore.
He saw the wooden jewelry box in the corner of the table and lifted the lid slowly, tears still rolling down his cheeks. The box was modest on the outside, but it contained the many treasures he'd given her over the years of their marriage. Strands of pearls, golden chains, diamond earrings, rings of varied gems. Amidst his tears, he chuckled. Her closet was filled with more gifts, he remembered. Furs, designer dresses, gowns for every occasion. As he had grown more successful and especially after she'd born him his son, his gifts had grown more lavish.
But as he sat with her empty robe, surrounded by her belongings, in the room that she had decorated, in the house that he had bought for her…he knew that none of it mattered anymore. He'd give them all back, throw all the money he had spent away, if she walked through the bedroom door again.
VII.
Rick sat with the funeral director the next day, signing papers to solidify their plans for Lucy's funeral. He felt numb. The day started with him finding his father curled up on the bed with his mother's robe in his arms, still wearing his clothes from the day before. His demeanor hadn't been very different than it was the day before, either. He ate very little, showered out of necessity and changed into a new suit, dark with a black tie.
They had arrived at the funeral home early and were told that Lucy was already in their custody. Ricky provided them with clothing and jewelry for her, which he had chosen himself; the only thing he'd done with purpose since her death.
Rick went about the heavy task of selecting a casket; his father couldn't even walk into the room.
Now as Rick slid the signed paperwork across the desk to the director, he began to feel overcome by grief again, spurred by this whole grim process. But he held his tears to himself valiantly, knowing that if he broke down, his father would follow.
He shook the director's hand and walked back out to the lobby, where Ricky sat. He was looking straight ahead, his eyes focused on a sign which would bear his wife's name the next day.
Rick stood quietly for a moment, not wanting to disturb his father's thoughts too abruptly. He put his hands in his pockets; he wasn't used to wearing a suit. Even when he performed, he was more casual than his father. In fact, this was the first time he'd worn a suit since the last funeral he'd attended, when Ethel passed away. As sad as that was, he remembered, this was torturous for them both. His thoughts clarified. "Dad?"
Ricky looked up at his son slowly.
"Everything's all set, but they, uh, need you to pick out the flowers for the bouquet you want for Mom. Wanna do that before we go?"
Ricky nodded and stood up, waiting for his son to lead the way. Rick walked ahead of him. "The florist is down the hall," he said unconsciously.
They walked to a room at the end of the hall, but it wasn't a florist in the sense that Ricky was familiar with. There was a lady at a desk with a large book from which they were expected to pick arrangements. Ricky sat at the desk beside his son and nodded at the lady when she greeted them, but he wasn't paying attention to anything she said. He looked at the book as Rick turned the pages and he watched as his son selected an arrangement of pink and white roses for his mother. Their conversation sounded like buzzing to him; noise that made no sense. None of this made any sense. Their son should not be picking funeral flowers right now, Ricky thought to himself.
Rick put a hand on his father's arm; he'd been trying to talk to him but was getting no response or reaction. "Dad…"
Ricky snapped to attention. "I'm sorry. What…?"
"Which flowers would like for Mom from you?"
Ricky's eyes fell to the book again. They all looked the same. And what was the point of picking flowers for her anyway? He always brought her flowers to celebrate something….their anniversary, her birthday, the birth of their son…what was he celebrating now? He softened, surprised that a feeling like anger had crept into his thoughts. He looked at the book again. "Orchids. Do you have orchids?"
The lady reached over and turned some pages. She was speaking, but her words ran together and he didn't understand her. Thirty-four years in this country and suddenly he couldn't understand English, Ricky thought. His head was spinning.
Rick rested one hand on Ricky's arm, recognizing the turmoil he was grappling with. With his free hand, he pointed to a spray of orchids and lilies on the page. "I think this'll be fine, it's beautiful and it seems to be what my father is asking for."
His son's voice struck sudden clarity into Ricky's mind, clearing him of his troubled thoughts and giving him the comfort that came from not having to make a decision.
They thanked the lady and left, Ricky slumping into the car as Rick slid into the driver's seat to take them home. It was a silent drive and as they pulled into the driveway at the house, Ricky realized that he didn't remember any of it.
Ricky's legs seemed to carry him into the house with no input from his brain as he followed Rick into the living room. He pulled on his tie, dropping it absently onto the coffee table as he sat.
The next twenty-four hours was a blur for Ricky. He ate when his son insisted. He spoke only when asked a direct question. He took a hot bath when his son told him it would relax him. His son led him into the bedroom to rest when he found him standing in the hallway, staring at Lucy in photos. He cried when he heard his son playing the guitar and humming in the next room. He cried again when he tried to pick up his own guitar and couldn't force his fingers to even strum a chord. He became angry at Lucy for dying and pushed her pillow to the floor, only to pick it up hurriedly and apologize to it profusely. He managed to change into a pair of pajama bottoms and ended the day curled up on the bed with Lucy's robe in his arms.
VIII.
A crowd of people was waiting outside the funeral home when Ricky and Rick arrived in a black Lincoln sent to pick them up. Friends of the family, colleagues of both Ricky and his son, reporters, agents, show business professionals…all people Ricky respected and cared about. But today, he didn't care about any of them.
Rick stepped out of the car first in a jet black suit, sunglasses covering his reddened eyes.
Ricky followed him in his own black suit. They walked into the funeral home together, the staff holding back the other mourners until father and son had been given the opportunity to visit with Lucy privately.
They stopped outside the room where she lay, both suddenly feeling as though they wanted some of the last several hours back. Neither wanted to see her laying lifeless in a casket.
Rick looked at his father. "Are you ready, Dad?"
Ricky shook his head. "You go first. I'll be along in a minute. I need a minute."
Rick took off his sunglasses, placed them in his pocket and walked slowly into the room. Ricky sat in a chair just outside the room and stared straight ahead as the staff stood by. He held back tears as he listened to his son begin to cry just a few yards from him.
Then he stood up and headed into the room, fighting for even a hint of the confidence he normally had. His son was standing in front of the casket and he turned to see his father as he approached, his handsome face streaked with tears and his chocolate colored eyes red and weepy. He started to wipe away the tears in an effort to appear strong for his father, but Ricky held his arm. "You dun't have to do that."
Rick stood aside to allow his father to see Lucy, but he remained close by, not knowing what kind of reaction his father would have.
Ricky approached the casket and froze. He looked at her. Her face was blush again, her lips cherry red. Her skin was smooth and she looked as though she were napping. Her red hair was set in familiar voluminous curls. He looked mournfully at her figure in the royal blue dress that he picked out for her. The glittering diamond earrings that he'd given her for their fifth wedding anniversary graced her delicate earlobes. He knelt before her and reached in to touch her hand. It was rigid and cold; it reminded him of the mannequins at department stores rather than the warm fingers that held his and touched him for more than thirty years. But when he ran his thumb over the wedding band that was in its rightful place on the third finger of her left hand, those years flashed before his eyes. He remembered slipping it on her finger when they married and how she never allowed him to replace it, even when he wanted to buy her a ring with the biggest diamonds and the most pristine gold he had ever seen. The good times, the bad times, the times they laughed, the times they cried and the times they fought…all symbolized by a set of smooth, thin gold bands that they purchased together three hours before they got married in the next town over from where she would now rest.
And so, Ricky lowered his head to rest on the edge of the coffin, his hand holding hers, and he cried, with no care for who would hear him. He mourned for his broken heart, his motherless son and his empty bed.
As he begged God to strike him dead, Rick knelt beside him and embraced him, himself in tears. "No, Dad, no. She wouldn't want that and I don't want that. I need you."
Ricky returned his son's embrace. "You're my only reason for livin'. But I dunno what I'm gonna do without her. What am I gonna do without her?"
They rose to their feet, clinging to each other, and walked away from the casket. Ricky's breathing was labored and they sat a few feet away as the other mourners began to file in slowly.
Rick let go of his father slowly. "Stay here, Dad, don't push yourself." He stood and began greeting the people who had come to share their grief, pulling himself together like a true performer.
Ricky knew it wouldn't be long before he would have to do the same; people would begin crowding him soon. But as he sat in those quiet moments before they arrived, his hand warmed as though delicate fingers rested on top of it lovingly.